


Two-Target Mission

by AgentCalifornia (Drake)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, like really hard, maine/wash if you look hard enough, secret santa gift from rvb secret santa 2014!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:00:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2824388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drake/pseuds/AgentCalifornia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>York would be damned if the Freelancers missed Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two-Target Mission

**Author's Note:**

> This is a secret santa gift for sparkyandsnarky over on tumblr! I hope you enjoy it!

The quiet sound of dripping followed York through the cold, featureless hallways, as he walked toward what he assumed was his destination. It's a quiet, incessant drip, and every time it sounded York swore he lost a little more sanity. Like three sanity.

 _Sanity is not a unit of measurement, York._ Delta sounded off in the back of his helmet, and York shook his head with a grin.

"It is if I say it is. Which I do. So it is." He nodded to himself, counting the doorways they passed and watching the seams in the hallway for any suddenly closing doors.

_I do not believe that is how it works._

"Yeah well, whatever. Cut me some slack, eh D?" York spotted the door - it looked exactly like all the other doors, but it was fifteen doors down from where he turned into the hallway, and that sounded right. Ish. The dripping was digging at him, keeping him from focusing enough. "How long till the alarms go off, D?" he asked, pulling up the holo-lock on the door.

_If you do not trip the system alarm, ten minutes._

"Ha, _ha,_ D. You sure like to forget that I am actually good at picking locks." York snorted, winced at the strange, liquid-y feeling it raised in his armor, and worked on the lock. The holo-lock lit up his visor, and if he wasn't planning on heading outside he would have dumped the helmet there. It was all getting stuffy and hot and uncomfortable, despite the fact that it was actually freezing. York felt like whining about it, if only to make some noise, but the lock popped and the door hissed open. He stepped through, glanced down, and promptly ignored the pool of red that had gathered by his feet. He carried on.

_You have approximately four minutes, fifteen seconds until blackout._

"Power blackout? Am I getting extracted?" York let himself get excited for a moment.

_Your blackout, York. You will lose consciousness if you do not get help, and you are already out of biofoam. Medical support systems are lacking in material to properly sustain you._

"Okay, D, let's stick to good news only, yeah? We close to the exit and the target?"

_Which target?_

"Both." York headed down the hallway, counting doors on the left now. Three, four, five...

_You are three hundred two meters away from Target A, if the schematics we were given are correct. You are another two hundred fifty-seven meters from Target B._

"Okay, well, we're short on time, we'll trust the schematics and uh...see if you can get a call out to Wash. I don't think I can get to the extraction point. He'll have to get me out hot."

_We are underground. The signal is being jammed and cannot reach the surface. You will have to get outside for the call to work._

"Alright, hey, here's our first target!" York jogged up to the door - luckily it wasn't locked. Which, if he had thought about it, would have been strange. He didn't have time to think about it, not if Delta's estimate was correct. Which, to be fair, it usually was.

_Thank you._

"I wasn't talking to you, D."

_Your target is the chip inserted into the computer. Ejecting it without proper credentials will set off the alarms._

"I don't have time to fake those access keys, do I?"

_You do not._

"Out in a blaze, then! Call Wash as soon as you're able." Delta didn't say anything, but York pulled the chip anyway, stashed it in a spot in his armor - his left arm - made just for it, and broke into a run. The room flashed red, sirens began screeching, and the door started to close. He sprinted for it, despite how it ached in his chest, and slid through the door before it slammed on him.

_Left._

"Thanks D!" He took off to the left, sprinting as hard as he could, not counting doors. He figured Delta could do that while he focused on staying upright. He didn't have the weaponry left to deal with guards - he'd used most of his ammo earlier, he just had a few pistol rounds left on him. Better to get out as quickly and smoothly as possible--

Bullets dinged into the floor behind him, and he cursed. So much for that. He didn't dare look back, they sounded far enough that he couldn't engage in hand-to-hand without getting shot on the way there. So he took a few more steps, spotted an open hallway, and got ready to duck into it to catch a breath.

_Don't. Go right. The exit is just there._

"Won't it be locked?"

_You may have beaten the alarm to lockdown. If you have not, shooting the access panel may yield favorable results. Sixty-five percent chance of success._

"Good enough for me." York skidded to a stop, pivoted ninety degrees, almost slipped in his own blood, and took off down the hall, pulling his pistol and shooting his last rounds into the access panel of the closing door. It shorted out, barely open, just enough for him to slide through and into the freezing blizzard outside. "D, _why_ was this a good idea?!"

_Agent Washington is on his way. He suggests you get out into an open space so that he is able to land._

"Yeah, alright, alright!" York was already shivering, but there was nothing that could help that. He ran out from under the overhang - or cave, really - that the base had been situated in, out into the blinding white snow. It was a good thing Maine wasn't on this mission - he'd be lost in a second. Though he also would probably have been covered in blood, so maybe not.

The screaming of a dropship's engines under ridiculous strain sounded over the blistering wind, and York saw a dark shape dropping out of the sky towards him. It would be down to his level in less than fifteen seconds. In the mean-time, he saw his second target - a perfect cone-shaped tree, surrounded by nothing but snow. He pulled out his second-to-last weapon, a cubic grenade, and tossed it at the tree. It vanished, along with the snow around it, leaving a circle of dead grass behind.

The dropship nearly slammed on the spot a second later, barely avoiding an explosive crash. York couldn't even give Wash shit for it - he was the last person anyone called on to pilot. Everyone else was somehow busy. York threw himself into the open bay of the ship as guards and mercenaries from the base spilled out into the snow. He shouted "Go, go!" without strapping himself into a seat, watching the doors close as the ship lurched upward.

York groaned against the floor, but at least it was Project Freelancer floor, and not Unnamed Enemy floor. He could relax here. Delta's displeasure tickled at him, but it wasn't strong enough to fight off the warmth from the interior of the ship - not that it was warm, per se, but it was so much warmer than the freezing outdoors.

Delta sent himself forward to the captain's chair. "Agent Washington, I recommend you either halt in mid-air and attend to Agent York, or you return to the Mother of Invention at above top speed."

"That's not much of a choice, is it, Delta? Can you hold the ship steady?" Wash asked, his helmet turning towards the back of the ship.

"Yes." The instant the word was uttered, Wash was out of his seat and in the back of the ship, pulling York off of the ground and setting him in a seat.

"York, buddy. I'm gonna switch armor with you, alright? It looks like your healing unit's all out of juice. You can use mine until we get back." York hummed in his helmet, barely audible, and Wash took that as affirmation. He'd had to pull armor off of non-responsive agents before - dead or not, he really didn't want to think about it - and it was on the floor in a few seconds. His own was off faster, and he started suiting York up into it, wincing as he looked at the various holes York was riddled with. A couple in the side, two in his chest, one in his arm, a clean shot along the side of his leg. He couldn't obsess over them, getting his healing unit up and running was his best bet. He wasn't any sort of doctor, after all. It looked strange, seeing York's scarred face in black and yellow armor, but it would have to do, he thought, as he snapped his helmet on his comrade. "You hang in there. I'm gonna send Delta back to take care of you while I get us home." York mumbled something, but Wash didn't catch it on his way the front, armor-less. There was no point in putting on such broken armor - it would probably have to be heavily repaired as soon as they got back. No missions for York for at least a month.

\---

When they docked back on the Mother of Invention, a med team was ready, and almost passed over York entirely, looking for a bleeding agent in tan armor. When they saw York's armor on the floor and an armor-less Wash, they snapped back to York and pulled him out of the ship, taking him straight to the med-bay. Wash collected the armor to take to the armory, heading off and promising to go to the med-bay  as soon as he'd finished.

\---

York woke up a day and a half later, hauled himself out of the infirmary, and nearly crashed into an un-armored Wash at the door. He caught York before he could fall to the ground, but it was a near thing.

"What are you doing out here? You're supposed to be in there!"

"What day is it?" York asked, somewhat blearily, which wasn't really making a case for him, but he had to know.

_It is 9:23 PM on the twenty-fourth, Agent York._

"Yep okay, can't wait anymore. Good thing I didn't miss it." York grinned, spotting a coffee machine behind Wash's shoulder. "I need a cup of coffee, and I need a...where's my armor?"

"York slow down, you were just shot a dozen times, you've not going on a mission for a few weeks." Wash gently held York's shoulders, avoiding the injuries but not letting him move.

"Wash, it's the _twenty-fourth._ This mission was last-minute enough as it is, I need to get my armor."

"Your mission was a success, you got what you went for, and you're not cleared to leave the Mother of Invention anyway." Wash glanced over his shoulder and spotted the coffee machine, stepping to the side to block it from York's view. "You've earned a rest, okay? No coffee for a few days. Get some sleep."

"What, and miss the best holiday of the year? You're cold, Wash. C'mon, help me get a coffee, take me to the armory so I can pull something off my suit, and let's go to the lounge."

"What holi--York, what are you planning?" Wash's question turned suspicious, and he regretted even considering doing what the clearly-out-of-it agent asked.

"It's a surprise. Either help me or get out of the way, Wash. It's almost midnight." Delta twitched at the back of his mind, as if he was going to pipe up and disagree, but said nothing.

"Alright, alright! But only if you promise to go back to the infirmary after. And as long as this doesn't tear open your wounds." Wash threw his hands into the air in surrender, but York had kind of been relying on them to stay upright and he lilted forward at the loss of support. Wash quickly caught him again, grumbled in displeasure, and led him over to the coffee machine. York leaned on Wash, his arm wrapped around his shoulder, using the extra support to balance. Wash's armor was gone, and York hazily remembered being put in it in the dropship, something about its healing unit still functioning? If he had to hazard a guess, Wash was getting York's blood cleaned out of it before putting it back on.

Coffee in hand, they made their way to the armory, York growing more and more chatty the more he drank.  Once they reached the armory, York peeked through the window and saw his armor in a pile on the table, before pressing himself against the wall, as if he would suddenly be caught and dragged back to the infirmary.

"Wash. I need that teleportation grenade."

" _What?_ " Wash's voice cracked even at a whisper.

"The teleportation grenade in my armor. The last one. I need it."

"You had _teleportation_ _grenades_?"

"Yeah. Standard issue for this kind of mission. You know, the sneaky lock-picky ones that I get sent on all the time? Because I can pick locks?" York took a sip of coffee, waggling his eyebrows at Wash as he did so.

_Actually, your success rate is --_

"Shut it, D," York grumbled into his coffee, hoping Wash didn't hear. No such luck, Wash snorted loudly.

"Alright, fine, I'll get it. You better not be teleporting a keg of eggnog because you felt too lazy to carry it out." Wash entered the armory, and could immediately be heard talking to whoever was repairing York's armor. Sounded like it might have been Florida, but York couldn't be sure. When Wash came back out, he was tossing the grenade up and down, the cubic projectile bouncing off his palm. York snatched it mid-air, almost fumbled it - not enough coffee yet - and pressed it against his chest to avoid dropping it.

"Sweet. You're a hero. One last stop." York was grinning now, and Wash suffered a dawning regret.

Their walk to the lounge was quiet, the only notable events being York wincing every once in a while, and a coffee stop halfway through because York had already finished his mug. Wash wasn't sure how he'd not had a heart attack yet from the sheer amount of caffeine he'd ingested over his lifetime, but it clearly worked.

York set his coffee mug down - an achievement for him, really, leaving it behind - at some point down the hall to the lounge. They reached the lounge and found Carolina and Maine polishing their guns, North playing a shooter with South, and Wyoming and Connie playing chess. They all turned at the sound of the door hissing open, and Carolina was already on her feet to yell at York for being out of the infirmary - that woman was magical, had reflexes that were nearly inhuman, he wasn't sure how she did it but he did know he was head over heels in love.

"Merry Christmas, bitches!" York crowed, lobbing the grenade into the center empty space.

The room was overturned before the grenade ever landed. Maine had viciously flipped the couch, crouching behind it. Carolina had taken a sliding dive toward the table Connie and Wyoming were sitting at, knocking it over and getting behind it as the two jumped out of their chairs to take cover as well. South heard the chaos, turned, and had the wind knocked out of her by North, who shoved her back and away from the middle of the room. Wash watched in awestruck horror, almost trying to pull York out of the room before remembering that this was the second of a pair of teleportation grenades. York seemed to be in shock - what did he expect, throwing a grenade into a room full of trained soldiers? - but was grinning despite it.

The chaos ended a second later when the grenade hit the floor and exploded in a flash of light. A gust of freezing air blew through the room, and when the flash faded, there was a perfect, green Christmas tree in the room. Also snow. A lot of it. The floor was kind of gone, taken over by the snow, and the teleportation had taken some of the blizzard too, leaving some flakes falling even as the amassed freelancers tried to understand what happened. York stood there, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, and Wash looked from the tree to the freelancers to York.

Carolina looked like she was about to yell at York for getting out of the infirmary for this and for throwing a grenade, but then she realized that the only place York could have gotten this was in his last mission in the frozen tundra. Which meant he'd thought of it and grabbed it while full of holes and waiting for extraction. Her anger died before it reached her lips. "You're an idiot, York," she grumbled instead, grinning.

"Yeah, but I'm _your_ idiot," York replied.

_Very smooth, Agent York._

"Let's see if we can find anything to decorate it with!" Connie piped up, jumping up from behind the table. North got up to help her, and while Wash had been watching those exchanges, Maine had rolled a snowball, which he hurled with deadly accuracy into Wash's chest. Wash squawked in indignation, and South gleefully made her own snowballs to throw at Wyoming.

So maybe it wasn't a traditional Christmas, but York figured he'd done pretty well. He wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

 

 

 

 


End file.
